It's different when it's mine

I was writing a response to something on FL earlier and I thought I’d try to explain a bit more fully here.

I’m a sadist. That part is easy. I also like control, and preferably ownership. These obviously don’t have to be linked but as soon as you get to O/p they become so for me.

There are so many sadistic things that I like to do to what’s mine, and that gets reflected in myriad ways. Sadism without the context of ownership feels like a different creature to sadism within O/p for me. With someone I don't own it’s just different. I don’t drink just anyone’s blood for example, but if it’s my blood, in the sense that I own it, it’s a glorious, passion filled, life filled intimacy for me.  Take that connection away and the act is unrecognisable for me.

So for me, within the context of O/p sadism becomes more than ‘just’ sadism. It becomes a manifestation of a core truth, an essence, of something to do with authenticity and being who we are, and sharing an energy that we create.

That’s why trying to talk about sadism cleanly, as distinct from O/p doesn’t work for me if I’m talking about sadism within an O/p context. It’s because I am, effectively, talking about an utterly different experience.

I can hurt other people, I can lay all sorts of claim to their bodies, their spirits, their time, their love or whatever it is we are based upon. But unless they are my bodies, and my spirits contained within them, it is not the same from my side of the equation. Can I hit or bite flesh as hard? Yes - but the connection behind that is not in any way the same.  It may be wonderful, but for me it’s not the same.

I want to gulp down blood that I own, not on just anyone’s blood. There may be pleasure in it without ownership but for me, it’s not comparable. And drinking from someone I used to own would feel like sucking on something dead, not the warm fuzzy thing I hear about on FL. It’s the energy and connection that matters to me. As blood floods into my mouth (or whatever the act in question may be) it’s the physical manifestation of a primal, spiritual connection.

I know deep connections can exist without ownership, I have such connections, but this is specific and that’s why I find it hard to talk about sadism as the same thing whether it occurs in O/p or not. Because to me, it just is not the same the same thing. It may be to some people and that's wonderful, but it isn't to me. 

I can get pleasure from being intensely sadistic to people I don’t own, but it is so different to opening up what’s mine, because it’s mine, that it feels like discussing another subject.

Blessings.

Being British I don’t do Thanksgiving, and I suppose if I did it would be the Canadian variety. However I have quite a few American friends here so none the less it creeps into my life. Leaving aside the problematic historical issues regarding Thanksgiving, ever Pollyannaish me thought it might be nice to focus on the ‘giving thanks’ part and join in from Blighty.

So, seven things I am thankful for (I don't know why some people do seven by the way. Is it regional? Or is there a significance? I must find out).

• My wonderful offspring who I love and adore with every last part of my being.  The best thing I have ever done.
• My wonderful friends without whom my life would be an entirely different landscape.  I am truly blessed to have each and every one of them.  I really am exceptionally lucky in this area, and every time I need them there they are. Love them all.
• My health stabilising and all that this entails. Psssst, we are approaching the end of November and though there's a few difficulties so far still no major flare. I am quietly  thrilled.
• My creativity starting to make reappearance (see above). I was starting to think it had gone forever, but no. It’s peaking out again. I am gleeful.

• Being privileged enough to have access to the internet and to know such lovely people as a result.  This includes the ones I have got to know in real life and the ones who remain a virtual presence.  You’re a very cool addition to my world. How else would I learn about hand turkeys, lip tattoos, TV recommendations, avicas, and generally get such enjoyably random chatter?

• A house to live in, food to eat and drinks to drink. a lock on my (one) door to keep the world out, books on my shelves, snugly quilts on my bed, pretty gardens, warm clothes, a summer house, hot showers in the morning, presents for people all over my house, luxuries, lovely sparkliness and wooden mushrooms and stuff that makes me smile when I look at it, music, days out, living by the forest, tea…. Oh what the heck, I’m mentioning the tea twice. 

Ok, yes, I added the  'sparkly household nick naks' part just as an excuse to put this picture up

• ….. and N. Magically cleaned boots, adventures, love, poached eggs, hot sex, cuddles ….  Oh just see here  before I ruin my allegedly dastardly rep ;)

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. I hope you all have a lot to be grateful for, just like me.

My butterfly is too shiny.

Today was a very early start and a Cambridge day. The interesting bit is that I went to a  Vermeer exhibition  at the Fitzwilliam museum and got to see The Lacemaker and The Music Lesson which was very cool. Other highlights for me included The Reader by Eglon van der Neer, and A Woman at a Window by Jacobus Vrel which I have a secret love for ("Oh screw the housework, it's sunny out there and there are much more interesting things going on. Also yes, I'm fat so if you don't want to look at my arse feel free to avert your eyes irrelevant viewer"). Ok, it's just possible that I am projecting a little ;)

'Kiss it'.

As they couldn’t find anyone else at that moment, I also got roped briefly into waffling on about a painting (The dead Christ supported by the Virgin Mary and Mary Magdalene, by Bassetti in case anyone is randomly curious). This basically involved me saying things like 'Slate is very dark, and look this one’s not broken. How super!' I’m a  fucking genius I tell you. Amusingly I was asked to take my butterfly hairband off as I suspect butterflies don’t look learned (though they sweetly pretended it was because it was too shiny for camera). Snort. This amused me immensely.   

What else? Aside from practical stuff there was Christmas shopping, including a rather entertaining present for N which I am sniggering about as I type (I think I am hilarious with this and I nearly laughed like a loon in the shop when I saw it. Oh bad puns, how I love thee), more art supplies for a big present I’m making up, and books. Also purple leather gloves for myself from N as miraculously I found a pair that fitted my decidedly non-dainty hands. I sent him a text to tell him he'd bought me a lovely present and naturally as a good slave he was thrilled I'm quite sure.

Coffee, Welsh cakes, nattering, and some generally pleasant Cambridge time.  The festive season is definitely upon us in terms of the shops, it was carols on the speakers and mulled wine scent in the air systems of big shops, which is one of the many reasons I try to avoid them like the plague. I also detected that first whiff of frenzy in the air, lots of Very Middle Class women buying things like shawls with artsy recycled glass beads on, and darling china tea cups in special satin lined gift boxes etc.

Then home on the train and a trudge through the rain in the dark to find a slave waiting with tea for me. Is there anything nicer than coming in tired and cold to find someone dutifully waiting with lovingly pre-prepared tea? I realise most people see O/p as being one long round of chains and debauchery but as far as I am concerned tea is a major component. In fact next time someone puts one of those threads up in the O/p group asking 'what the cornerstone of O/p is' I think I shall reply that here at least, it is tea.

Tonight is my weekly big drugs night so I shall try to fit as much as possible in before I take it. But first dinner. And then, shockingly, some more tea.

Patchwork Monday

Shedwatch: Door now assembled and just needs fitting.

Slavewatch: He's doing better, much more like his old self. I am assuming this is the result of sleep as much as anything else.

Sleepwatch: Insomnia last night triggered by tangible interruption and pain. I got up to not disturb N as much as anything else. There's no point in drugging him to sleep then keeping him awake. I'm really tired though.

As well as the above, in amongst other dull stuff, today I;

Rushed about too early, and too cold. It's bloody FREEZING here.

Went to a delightful tea shop and had hot chocolate ('for warmth') and toffee tiffin.

Had a lot of very hot sex. Again 'for warmth'.

Woefully failed to complete my to do list.

Bought a wooden Mexican calavera (day of the dead skull) pendant thing from a cool guy called Matt that I really like.

Bought lots of Christmas presents online and in the Mildenhall shops (tons of art supplies & a few toiletries).

Played a lot of Tori Amos, and a new copy of an old Kate Bush CD.

Came up with a fucking brilliant plan involving N, more of which later. I’m sure many of you will enjoy it immensely however :D

I now need to get stuff ready for an early start in the morning, but first I’m going to drink this tea.

Bloody Sunday

My weekend has been a blur though it shouldn’t have been. And today, we emerged from our Sunday morning bed and put up a shed. Quite wonderfully N did most of the manual stuff this time, and my role mostly involved just working out how it all went as the instructions were both idiotic and misleading, and N understandably couldn’t fathom it, demonstrating - ’no I mean turned  180 degrees then tilted to this angle, so the holes line up’, - and doing the assistant jobs like holding panels in place and passing screws. It was just like being a glamorous assistant but without the glamour. I’m doing this Mistress lark wrong again aren’t I?

The new shed being up is something I wanted though as it’s a key part of Operation Sort The Storage Crisis, Reclaim The Lean To, And Thus Get My Art Desk Out From Under Things Like Bloody Chainsaws.  

Please note, ‘bloody chainsaws’ in this sense is me being British, and not some act of diabolical sadism. Thankyou ;)

.....But chainsaws don't belong on art desks.

Sex.

I’ve just posted on a thread on the O/p group and it led me to write this post.

Though other people do, I never use the term ‘sex addict’ about myself as I think it’s a spurious ill defined term, but it’s definitely fair to day I fit much of the vague criteria generally bandied around as indicating sex addiction – except for the ‘negative impacts’ factors, and it’s this I’m going to discuss.

For the benefits of this post I just did a silly online assessment on a very earnest site to see what it said, and lo it informed me I have a serious problem with sexual addiction and need help. Okey dokey internet. But you see, I do not consider my sexuality to be problematic (you will be unsurprised to know there is a political rant about the tethering of female sexuality just brewing but fear not, I shall spare you all as an act of kindness).

One of the many reasons for me not considering my sexuality to be problematic is that I niftily manage this facet of myself by owning a slave.  ‘Problem’ solved. - I'm an ENTJ, remember? We don’t like to not have stuff running according to our wishes. It's messy ;)

I am a diehard pleasure seeker, and God do I love the highs in Life. Always have done, it’s my base nature. So naturally over the years I have learned how to manage my hedonism. Throw in the fact that I’m hyper orgasmic, and the fact I would have a huge desire for sex starts to seem pretty obvious. The fact I cannot manage without orgasming very, very regularly is just how this manifests.

When I say ‘I can’t manage’ I do not mean I just feel an overwhelming (sometimes painful) desire to orgasm many many times a day, though that is also true too. I mean that I literally cannot manage not to – my body will even spontaneously orgasm if I don’t ‘feed’ it. I can often orgasm at will without external stimulation (I use the term ‘external stimulation’ because I am often stimulating myself with my muscles internally) and thus I just am sexual regardless of whether I seek out someone else to 'do sexing' with or not.  I am aware this is seen as ‘problematic’ to some people, but really I would not change things. I like my sexuality. Very much.

Anyway, coupled with my natural hedonism, having people who are obligated canvases for my eroticism, be that for sex, sadism or domination; and to be honest the line between these is usually blurry in reality; is a perfect solution to a constant craving. And of course it’s also one that fits my base nature in the far more fundamental way as I really love control. I like just saying ’put your arse up, I want to use it’ or ’get busy with your mouth’ or ’lie there, I’m going to hurt you now’ or ’get your cock stiff I want to fuck’ without any need for whatever the hell it is other people do - roses, or candles or whatever it is. 

The way I see it, if you are working something successfully to your advantage, not harming anyone, and happy with the outcome how is it a ‘problem’? The criteria for sex addiction is a) non conclusive, there is no definitive clinical definition from what I can see, and b) steeped in an ‘it’s a problem’ discourse (generated remember, by people making money out of expensive treatment programmes), which is one of the many reasons I do not genuinely identify with the paradigm;

But to take one popular model for sexual addiction;

• Frequently engaging in more sex or with more partners than intended.  

More sex than intended? Yes, sometimes. But generally I’m happy with the principle of rampant fucking. More partners that I intended? No. Why? Because I don’t set myself up within a restrictive criteria, and I own a slave so I can have what I like anyway.

• Being preoccupied with or persistently craving sex; wanting to cut down and unsuccessfully attempting to limit sexual activity.

I constantly crave sex. I do attempt to limit for practical reasons. I don’t want to though. I was to fuck. Surely that’s obvious?

• Thinking of sex to the detriment of other activities or continually engaging in excessive sexual practices despite a desire to stop.

‘Desire’ to stop? Erm, depends what you mean by ‘desire’. While there’s a necessary and deeply annoying practical requirement, that’s not something I see as a desire.  I occasionally wish I didn’t wake up horny so many times a night, or that I didn’t orgasm on the train or in Starbucks, but generally I’m content with the status quo. I engage in excessively sexual activities by most standards, yes, but these are not my standards.

• Spending considerable time in activities related to sex, such as cruising for partners or spending hours online visiting pornographic Web sites.

I’d say no to this but I’m sure a psychologist would count FL.

• Neglecting obligations such as work, school or family in pursuit of sex.

Guilty as charged.

• Continually engaging in the sexual behaviour despite negative consequences, such as broken relationships or potential health risks.

No major negative consequences recently. Well, other than a few sexual injuries and the odd necessary slave repair job. ‘Potential’ health risks? Sure. Don’t all sexual relationships contain those though?

• Escalating scope or frequency of sexual activity to achieve the desired effect, such as more frequent visits to prostitutes or more sex partners.  

And/ or generally upping the kinky depravity? In that case, yes. I am continuing to have a fine time, thankyou very much.  

• Feeling irritable when unable to engage in the desired behaviour.

Oh FUCK YES. Stand between me and sex and it’s not pretty. It’s not pretty because when I need to orgasm, I. Need. To. Orgasm. And therein lies a key point - not all of this is psychological for me, it’s also very very physical. And I manage this, just the same as I manage my sadism.

So anyway perhaps I’m a 'sex addict' whatever that may of may not mean, but if I am I manage it well and I have no desire to change.

So there pseudo scientists.

Stress relief.

To make up for the angsty post;

After tackling some difficult stuff today, I decided to let off steam by putting N through his paces when we got home. I put him in his cute lacy panties (aside: from the rear it’s actually a very pleasing fuckworthy view, not just a humiliation thing - I just don’t look at the front), spanking him over my knee in a slightly 'girlish' manner, then buggering the ever loving fuck out of him in various positions with his panties on his thighs and telling him he’d make a good wife.

I briefly felt pseudo-lesbian again. It must be all that purple ink ;)

After I’d finished all that and N had secured permission to remove the panties, he managed a sterling job of asserting his masculinity and generally giving me a blissfully good seeing to. This including him going to work on my breasts, which is a relatively recent triumph of his. I never used to like them being so much as touched, (it was like ‘touch the tits I’m going to punch you bitch’), and now he successfully makes me repeatedly orgasm that way. It is without doubt fair to say my man has mad skills in the sack. He has done some astonishing things in terms of eroticising all sorts of bits of me, or touching me in very clever ways (example, he does this awesome nerve ending thing that can make me orgasm and shudder when he does it on my lower back. And if he does his magic stuff on my neck I lose it. He's a fucking artist, literally).  

So anyway, he’s sore and I had a lovely, stress reducing, marathon, orgasm festival.

I might stick sharp things in him later I think. That sounds a nice way to end the day. I haven’t mention that though. Tra la la.

Angst in Ely.

Tuesday was a very busy day, but I managed get a lot done, and also spend some enjoyable time doing nice things, aka shopping – pretty thermal base layer top, ‘there is no such thing as bad weather just the wrong kit’ etc, five 16 x 12 dark wood picture frames for some lovely prints, a flask with birds on, a Cath Kidston gadget case, purple lip gloss, brown hair dye (used last night), silver wire love heart earrings, electric toothbrush heads (sexily)   - and having a gingerbread latte in Ely too, which was good.  Lovely in fact.

Ely Cathedral (which is lovely, by the way)

While in Ely, I also did something somewhat compulsive however. You see, it’s my Mother’s birthday soon. Every single birthday, and Yule (and various other times, randomly), I go through this quite deranged thought process, usually in the early hours of the morning.

'I wonder how Mum is. It’s her birthday soon. I wonder if she’s ok. I can’t send her anything to try to make her happier for her birthday now. I could send a card. No, that would be stupid. What good would it do? You know it won’t actually do anything helpful. And anywhere you can’t send a card because then she’ll know where you live. Ah, well I could send one when I’m away from home, especially if I’m in a different county. Cambridge is the obvious answer because then she will automatically assume I’m still in Cambridge. I’m going to [X place] this week, I wonder if that would do. But it’s stupid anyway, there’s no point in sending a card, even if I do manage to deal with the location issue. A card wouldn’t make her life nicer anyway. I could send a totally anonymous gift of neutral but nice things, sort of like a hamper. Then she wouldn’t know it was from me. And I could put all her favourite stuff in. But then she would know it was me because who else would know all her favourite stuff? And who else would be sending her anonymous gifts? I suppose I could put some stuff she doesn’t like in it as well to blur the matter. Oh FFS, that’s ridiculous. The card idea was stupid enough. Though the card isn’t useful, but a gift would be, so it’s actually less foolish. But both are idiotic plans. I’d have to lug my no doubt heavy secret parcel full of useful lovingly chosen gifts (and sneaky unwanted ones?) a long way, to get round the location issue which is ridiculous. A card would at least not be difficult in that manner. But it’s stupid anyway, there’s no point in sending a card, even if I do manage to deal with the location issue……'

And on this goes. Seriously, this is how nuts this issue drives me. On no other matter am I ever a basket case a’la this.

On Tuesday though as I was walking round a shop in Ely  buying the picture frames I found myself staring at the cards and decided to do it. Away from home? Check. Right time of year? Check. Cards just sitting there? Check. Idiotic fucking crazycakes idea? Check. First we had the ‘which card will be the most appropriate option’ dilemma. A huge rack of cards and pretty much every one had a landmine on it. That one says too much loving stuff. That one mentions being happy and she can’t be happy. That one is too fun, she’ll see it as taunting. That one is too affectionate. That one she’ll think is childish and see as patronising. That one she’ll see as too plain and a rebuff. That one is dark colours and she’ll take as some cruel thing. That one has a family on it. That one she’ll see as something to do with the devil. That one has a garden on it and that’s the last thing I need. That one will make her get depressed about her dead cat. On and on it goes. In the end I went for what seemed the best option but which I know she will analyse and find a thousand faults with.

Then I packed it away and tried to put it out of my head, and went for the aforementioned vat of gingerbread latte. About halfway through my pint sized mug it was time to write the card. This involved writing out several carefully worded options in my notebook in an effort to get the most non inflammatory phrasing I could. Then agonising about them for a while and scribbling and editing. Then looking through my pens to try to find an ink that would be most acceptable. Black she’ll see as hostile. Of the options in my bag at this precise minute that leaves purple and gold. Gold is out as she’ll say she can’t read it. That leaves purple, which she’ll bitch about for it’s flamboyance and no doubt turn it into some homophobic thing. But purple is not going to register as actually aggressive  and it’s visible so I shall have to go with flamboyant-burn-in-Hell-you-invert-dyke ink.  Unless I go to the shops for a blue pen. Which I’m not doing because I shouldn’t be doing this anyway and holy fuck all this dicking around is fucking ridiculous. What the fuck am I doing? Since when do I do shit like this?



Apparently purple is 'flaky' rather than dykey and thus I should not have worried  ^



So, with my flamboyant lesbian ink I carefully (because my handwriting will be analysed and shown and discussed in great detail) transcribed my carefully crafted phrasing. I have pretty nice handwriting usually, unless my hands are especially bad I often get compliments on it. But yesterday presumably because I was in this tensed up, making an effort state my writing was shit on the inside of the card (though tellingly totally back to my nice normal writing for the name and address on the envelope, when I wasn’t thinking about it). 

And let us not forget the whole what to write re names debacle. What to call her? I went with ’Mum’ as really, all other options come off as mean, but I know it will piss her off. Then there is what to call myself (long story, don’t ask). I went with my forename. This will not go down well, but what else to do?

Then I looked it over in detail and stressed about it an considered buying a new card and a blue pen and again decided I had let this idiocy already take me far too far into crazyville. The above is about as opposed to my normal behaviour as is possible.

Then whether to tuck the envelope in, or stick it shut. Was the stamp in squarely enough? Would an Ely postmark cause a problem? Should I just throw it in the bin (Sensible answer: yes. Chosen behaviour: no)? And eventually I posted the stupid fucking thing.

The fact that I can normally do the things I do, competently and happily, but this turns me into a total clusterfuck of insecurity and stress is precisely the reason I should not send cards. But now I have and that means I may have accidentally set a premise. I never thought of that, because I was too busy persuading myself not to do it.  

Versatility.

VBA’s are apparently ‘Versatile Blog Awards’ rather than say Visible Bra Atrocity, Very Big Arse, or Virgin Bootie Alert (this last one thanks, unsurprisingly, to the delight that is N). Who knew? Not I said the chick from Suffolk. But then the lovely Vixen told me. Mwah, Vixen <3

First I’d like to say that I love the fact it’s called ‘versatile' rather than random. Isn’t that sweet?

Being utterly wonderful I am ahead of the game on sharing things about myself , but as per the rules I shall offer seven more random bits of crap about myself fascinating tidbits in the spirit of randomness versatility.

1)  Is how many times I have played scrabble on a board and also the number of times I promptly had a meltdown over said scrabble. Seriously. It made my head glitch because of the patterns. I feel twitchy just thinking about the horrors.

2)  Is the minimum number of orgasms I seem to be capable of having in any one go.  I physically seem incapable of just having one.

3)  Is the optimum maximum number of slaves for me I think. A girl, a straight boy and a gay boy sounds nice, don’t you agree?

4)  Is the number of children I would have liked.  

5)  Is the number of stone I weighed at my lowest weight. I was emaciated and looked like crap, it was hardly some aspirational Kate Moss type thing.  Incidentally five is also the number of stone I would rather like to lose now. The irony, it burns.

6)  Is about the number of cups of tea I try to limit myself to in a day.

7)  Is the number of days of the week I am fucking fabulous. Also modest.

And now as per the rules once again I shall link to seven random blogs I think are cool.

Picking My Own Brain

A Slave Amongst Drivers 

AlwaysHistora

TheVelveteenHoodrat 

Under His Hand

Down The Rabbit Hole

To Do With As She Will

Versatility rocks my friends.

Well trained owner.

07::00, deepest darkest Suffolk. Half asleep. Cold. 

Dashing to get ready to leave for Cambridge any minute now.

Before I can do so though I must get small child ready for school and there is a flaw in the system. Her leggings, necessary for basketball club, which I handwashed last night are still slightly damp. Bugger.

So, naturally in my half asleep; and crucially let us not forget arthritic with Very Dodgy Hands; state I take definitive action. I decide to quickly dry off her leggings by holding them over the gas ring of the cooker. They are not too damp after all and this will solve the matter quickly. I iz a genius, yes?

Ok, so it’s moronic even for someone without dodgy hands (someone who is currently sporting a nasty inner wrist burn from an accident involving failed wrist control I might add). And ok, I’d think someone else doing this was stupid…. but it’s cold and I’m in a hurry and I don’t want to traipse out into the cold to the tumble drier and fight with the lock for five minutes (because my hands are bad.....)

….. But this irritating voice in my head kept saying “If you drop these and set fire to yourself and the kitchen and have to explain to N just how you did this he’s going to lose his shit. Just think of the sanctimonious fire safety lecture, and how he will forever more have legitimate ammo with which to deem you to be a fire hazard of the highest order. And also what a fucking dick you’re going to feel explaining this to other people”.

Warning: Placing fabric, unstably, over naked flame is bad kids.

And thus, like a well trained owner I eventually traipsed out to the tumble drier and shall get the leggings out when I leave in ten minutes.

I am trueness personified. But kudos N - job well done.

Life on the edge.

Today we went to the coast, Blakeney in Norfolk to be precise. This is one of my favourite places, I utterly adore it. It’s peaceful and a wonderful place to walk and just ‘be’.  

So N and I stomped along the muddy coastal path talking and saying  ‘oh look, that tree is pretty. I like that windmill. Isn’t the church nice. Look at the boats. There are lots of birds aren’t there? Shall we have tea soon?’ We have both been very stressed lately so some peaceful wind down time was  really, really good. I made him take me for tea at a fancy hotel which was hilariously funny as it was full of dreadfully well to do people looking chic, and I was there all windswept with hot pink hair, big stompy boots and a trashy fur coat. Also, as I know Bidds reads here Foodwatch at Blakeney involved a freshly baked goats cheese & leek quiche warm from the oven, and very nice apple tart. Yum. It would have been worth the drive for that alone.

Oh and I asked N to buy me a dinky soup bowl and spoon set for 'xmas'. To say he looked bemused by this desire is overt understatement, but with a 'WTF? Well if that makes her happy. Girls are fucking weird.....' look he bought it for me. You are in awe of my edgy hardcore sexy ways aren't you? It's understandable.

Then after some running around doing too many necessary things in far too little time, I had a Doctor’s appointment which they called me in for in a light-flashing-message-come-immediately-fuss-about-nothing. This resulted in new stuff for my eyes, and an extra blood test booked for Friday. Oh and I got told off for missing my last one. Bad me. My contrition knows no bounds. 

  

'Switching' and blogging.

Decisive, fearless, planner, thrill seeker, engaged, social, self-centred, comfortable around others, image conscious, likes to be centre of attention, adventurous, outgoing, manipulative, emotionally stable, leader, ambitious, hard working, dominant, prepared, hates to be bored, confident, opinionated, analytical, prepares for worst case scenarios, organized, orderly, clean, driven, resourceful, finishes most things they start, achieving, risk taker, desires fame/acclaim, image focused, narcissistic, arrogant, perfectionist, driven, academic, scientific, critical, avoids giving in to others, does not like to compromise, sceptical ~ Classic ENTJ profile

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As I said the other day, I am feeling somewhat under par at present for a lengthy list of reasons. And as some of you know I am a Myers Briggs type ENTJ, heavy on the extrovert and, well, all components actually. To paraphrase I’m you’re original ‘assess, then get the job done however necessary by day, then have a big fuck off party afterwards’ type.

We talk about this a lot in the O/p group, having discovered over the years that O/p is littered with an abnormally high percentage of   INTJs , and people have sometimes asked me how I feel about the fact that ENTJs are sometimes seen as second in command types. This doesn’t bother me at all as I have spent large periods of my life as a damned fine 2IC person and excel in that role (well, as long as I respect the person in charge. Ahem. See slaves? I understand).

Incidentally, the ENTJ profile ‘trademark’ is often described as 'I'm really sorry you have to die' and though it sounds overblown I can’t say I don’t strongly identify with the sentiment. I imagine some of you can recognise this in me ;)

Anyway, when I have a slump I can occasionally become quite introverted which is highly unusual for me. An interesting side effect of this though, is that I have suddenly grown quite fond of blogging …. and let’s face it I was hardly blogging exceptionally regularly before. Again I say ‘ahem’.

I don’t feel particularly drawn to my usual interpersonal engagement, and random people asking things of me is not being met with a particularly enthused grace at present, but blogging lets me talk to people (because I’m still me, just having a comparatively introverted phase) without quite the same, suddenly draining, feeling that conversation does.  It’s interesting. I may have some vague insight into how all you INTJ types feel.

Blogging also gives me a misleading feeling of buffer so I’m doing things I may not usually do, and also feeling unconcerned with causing offense without cause. I’m not in a public space here so I can rant and wander to my hearts content without feeling like a knob. Tra la la, rant rant, oh look there’s a funny picture and a bootie shot. Have I told you about the time I anally fucked a girl with a scalding hot tea infuser? What do you think about spirituality? Do you like my shoes?

Anyway, from all this I have deduced that one of the keys to successful blogging is introversion, a theory that a totally non-scientific two minute 'poll' in her head would appear to support. N is a strongly defined INTJ. Master’s piece is an INTJ, I imagine also strongly defined. In fact most O/p bloggers are introverts from what I can tell. So, hurrah for this major scientific breakthrough brought to you from the wilds of Suffolk this fine Sunday evening!

But if it came to introversion and a semi maintained blog or my E-ness, I’ll stick with the latter. I mean, someone has to put the world to rights, offer tea and crumpets to the good people, slay a few fuckwits, and then organise a lovely party afterwards, don’t they?

'Whose arse is this baby'?

My last post was a festival of whining and the one before was all political, so today dear friends I offer you filth (I know that’s what most of you want really).

I've chosen this sordid little tale as I get asked about it sometimes. We’ll call this little piece ‘Who owns this arse?’ as that really has been a key point here once or twice. You see N, being the sort of bloke he is will sometimes try to stage a coup at the drop of a bloody hat.  He is also fiercely possessive and traditionally very jealous. It’s all very ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane!’ and if you are a submissive woman no doubt utterly wet knicker inducing stuff. Sexually he’s very much of the dominant male persuasion left to his own devices  and it’s fair to say that he would very much like to at least own my arse, even if he can’t have the rest of me.

So the day came when he pushed his luck too far on the matter of jealousy and possessiveness and I decided to take matters in hand. So obviously off to the friendly neighbourhood sleazy bisexual swingers club we went. As you do. The guy that runs it, waves at G, is lovely and makes every effort to accommodate us dirty perverts with our BDSM ways. He even put in a BDSM room for us, makes it clear that his is an inclusive venue and that if people don’t fancy watching BDSM to look the other way (kudos),  and sweetly puts gay porn on for me in the cinema to give me a break from directing my own. Darlings, I suffer for my art.

Usually when we go there it’s basically for me to entertain my depraved self by putting N to work on some cock. I like this primarily for the control factor (it’s fair to say being made to suck cock or being fucked by men sends him crashing through the floor psychologically), and also, well let’s face it, two or more hot men together is hot. Well, it is if you're me, ok?

So this is what he was nervously and reluctantly expecting. A beating and general degrading public usage, plus a cock or six shoved down his throat (I sometimes put him on his knees in the middle of a room and let men take turns). And most of that occurred, but perhaps more interestingly so did the following.

This rather handsome buff young black guy caught my eye and I decided he may be fun to take for a spin. I started by just offering him N’s mouth, which he graciously accepted, and so off to one of the seedy fucking rooms the three of us trotted.

Rather marvellously Mr Studly turned out to have a fucking huge cock as well as a fine arse body. Oh my. He also turned out to be pleasingly perceptive and pretty talented with said body and worked out the score pretty quickly. So I flounced around having them perform for a while and generally being rough with N. As N was on his knees sucking his cock and looking all fucked and mortified, when I shoved N’s head down - ’get that right down your throat bitch’ - I decided to stay local and enjoy Mr Studly kissing my breasts and running his hands up my thighs etc. When N saw this I thought he was going to hyperventilate along with his choking but I shoved his head down, kicked him a bit and reminded him of a few key truths as I had Mr Studly put his fingers between my thighs. At this stage our studly hero got very excited which was really good for me,  and delightfully bad for N’s mouth. Poor baby.  

Some undressing and general fondling ensued and then I went over to the wall and told N to ‘get his slut mouth off my lovers cock’ and come over to me. He knew this was not going to end well though I’m not sure he had a clue why. Then I braced myself against the wall so my arse was sticking out and told him to life my skirt (leather, because I’m cliched like that) over my hips. He complied. I told him to pull my panties ‘prettily’ onto my thighs for the other guy. I could feel him hyperventilating on my thighs and I have rarely seen him so mortified. But he did as ordered. I told him to do it slowly and sexily and asked him how my arse looked. Did it look fuckable? Wiggle wiggle. Did he think the other guy would be enjoying the sight? Were my cheeks spreading at all?

Mr Studly then instinctively got his tongue between my cheeks (men who want to do me always want to get between my cheeks, it’s pretty much a given here) and his fingers in my pussy while shoving his cock now really roughly down N’s throat. He was obviously bursting to fuck me, and poor N suffered the price. Ooops! Such a thought never occurred to my pretty little head. La la la.

A pleasingly plumptious view

All the way through this I was tormenting N about my arse being mine, not his, and how good he looked sucking my lovers cock while he got me off. Lots of questions and big eyed muffled mortified head nodding occurred. Did Mr Studly’s cock feel really fucking fat in his mouth? Was it really lovely and hard? Because you know how I love a nice hard fat cock in my bootie, you know that makes me come. Make sure you suck it nice and hard for me, because you know how horny I get for a fucking when I have my arse licked. And I haven’t had my behind shafted for a while so I bet it’s really tight and enjoyable.  He looked fucking devastated as well humiliated beyond belief. It was hot as fuck. 

N loves me and he loves my arse you see. Most men who find me attractive basically see tits and arse which is unfortunately understandable as both are very round and somewhat in your face (only literally in the case of the breasts). My breasts are not a major thing for me, but I actually really love my arse being pleasured.  I’m a total anal slut and wouldn’t trade that for the world. Think that makes me submissive? Then we can safely say you have never fucked me and that you’re opinion is pretty irrelevant. And I’m not denying myself pleasure to order to fit anyone’s view of the world. Screw that I'm afraid.

So, there I am bent over braced against the wall with my bootie angled at the sexiest sluttiest angled imaginable (fucking a lot of girls provides helpful tips re these matters – they don’t tell you that in Cosmo now do they? I could write a monthly column. Someone suggest it to Cosmo, quick), with my panties placed by N under instruction at just the most appealing place on the thighs, a leather skirt pushed up over my back (ok, and fuck off chunky biker boots on rather than some sluttastic stiletto but I’m me. Anyway, my legs look better in big boots IMO), my breasts bouncing around madly because if I’m bent over that’s what they do, Mr Studly’s cock slamming down N’s throat, and his fingers and tongue intermittently in both my holes depending on positions etc.  I was orgasming all over the place from the combination of fucking with N so much, and also the very pleasing sex. Mr Studly was desperate to come but clearly didn’t want to waste any chance of slamming up my arse, and N is on his knees, so humiliated and jealous he looks like he’s going to collapse and wants to kill someone, and then I realised he was trying to make Mr Studly come as he’d rather take it down his throat that have my arse filled with the fine young hottie's spunk.  This fact is very pleasing to me and my ego.

So naturally I take N’s mouth off Mr Studly’s cock for a few minutes, and onto the bed we go for a while as I make N watch while Mr Studly gets busy with the body worship (and worship he could. Oh my) and of course gets his tongue back up my arse while I come and come and ask N all kinds of questions and generally taunt the living fuck out of him, because I’m romantic like that.

Eventually I belt N around the face a bit, kick him down and tell Mr Studly to come down his throat while he’s making me come. It’s fair to say the guy gave it his all and N’s lips were exquisitely cock bruised for days afterwards.  (Side note: Is there anything more horny than a man with forcibly cock bruised lips? I really fucking love that).

I beat the living crap out of N afterwards obviously, and generally tormented him and had him generally whipped for the rest of the night, repeatedly asking him what rights he had over my arse. His reply was correct and for a change the desire to be a mouthy bitch or engage in his very special brand of ‘humour’ was quelled. A near miracle.

I’ve just looked at N’s blog and his account of this event is here 

It was a pleasing night and one that’s been replayed a couple of times in various ways since.  It’s not really about me wanting other men though, it’s very much about the control. God do I love the control.

Here endeth the filth.

Life is hard, and so are we.

A lot of life is pretty crap here at the moment.

N is ill,  in lots of pain, tired and volatile. I am stressed to fuck (for all sorts of quite significant reasons) and staggering on as best I can, periodically finding myself freezing and just wanting to stop the world for a while. I’m not sleeping with a vengeance; this is major insomnia even by my standards; so of course I’m becoming increasingly exhausted which isn’t helping. When the alarm goes in the mornings every day I consider just opting out of the day. Can I fuck everything and just stay in bed? Just today? Just for an hour. I can I can I can…. I can’t. Bugger.

N and I have both used our emergency-emergency-emergency energy reserves, in different ways. We are crawling through the days and things feel endless. It's cold. We have had loads of big unexpected expenses at a time when finances are majorly overstretched. And I’ve slashed N’s working hours for the sake of his health which is of course perfect timing.

N is going to the Dr next week. I meanwhile am thinking of radical action. So the ‘plan’ such as it is, is to basically stagger on and hope the strategies we are implementing will work in time.

Other news? Well I have put on lots of weight (medication and problematic eating – I either can’t eat at all or I am eating carbs. Marvellous).

But I have really nice new purple hair, and currently have a 'fuck it all' Turkish Delight cocktail, while N is listening to music and winding down, so things are not all bad :D

Onwards.

'Feminazism'?

My FL feed informed me that there’s a newish group called something like ‘the Anti feminism league’ (and full of engaging and intellectual discourse they are too. Snort). But even though these particular individuals aren't really worth considering, this started a train of thought I'd like to consider here. 

One of the trends on FL I find mystifying is the increasingly pervasive idea that an involvement with kink (even if it is M/f and/ or TPE) should automatically render any association with feminism obsolete. Even in CNC relationships there is that initial consent, where one chooses who to give oneself to, or who to submit to, and if one has kids one chooses who to allow into their lives etc. As I see it, this initial choice is really important. It was a choice made of people’s free will, usually after receiving an education. And of course the majority of us being on FL probably indicates we are to some degree in a privileged environment. Lucky us with our computers and our choices I say. I for one would rather not give that up in a hurry.

But of course the majority of kinky people are not in CNC, and most people chanting anti feminist rhetoric are simultaneously chanting the mantra of SSC. I wonder though, where the ‘consensual’ part of SSC comes into their longing for a world without any place for the aims or achievements of feminism. 

Electing to live one’s life a certain way, is never the same as not having a choice, and it seems that this is frequently forgotten.

Lots of women in kink want the right to dress as they please without fear of violation. They want to post photos of themselves in nothing but nipple clamps and a smile not be judged or assaulted by all and sundry. Their men usually want the same thing for them. How is this desire opposed to feminism?

‘I love being raped!’ I hear women cry (one of my favourite examples was a woman who said ‘she liked to hang around dark car parks on her own hoping some man would rape her’ for the sexiness of it all). But wanting your own choice of man to shove his cock into you forcefully, with your consent (whatever form that may take, CNC included) does not mean you generically love a random spot of rape, even if you use the phrase for titillation. Unless we think the idea of our daughters, Mothers and any other men or women having a violent stranger, relative, or acquaintance forcibly violate them, then we are not skippety happy regarding the realities of rape. It’s that easy. You may like rough sex. You may have rape fantasies. You may have elected of your own free will (there it is again) to enter into CNC with all that that entails. But as an across the board matter I doubt most people would be just thrilled if for example the scary dude you cross the road to avoid raped your child or your sister or your Dad now would you?

You may like being beaten, but I bet you anything you like you wouldn’t want that to be at the hands of just any old person who decided they wanted to kick you about, free of even any thought of ramifications or a personal connection.  Choice counts.

Most people want to have a choice who they fuck/ engage in kink with/ marry/ reproduce with etc. If you disagree ask yourself how you would feel if the man you detest most in the world had the right to forcibly fuck you, take your money, marry you, lock you up, and beat you legitimately. Or do that your kids/ sister/ brother/ parents/ friends. Deciding to elect to use your right to submit to someone is not the same as having this enforced on all people across the board. This is the key point that I see forgotten on FL time and time again. The fact that someone is in an M/f relationship, or a CNC one doesn’t  mean they need to be opposed to many of the principles of feminism across the board.

Submission of the voluntarily variety (be that for a limited period or for all time) in no way automatically negates the core principles of feminism. Personally, if I woke up tomorrow, overwhelmed with a longing to become submissive I bloody well would be. Not in spite of being feminist but because of it. Feminism is about trying to attain equality of choice for people, and as such if someone elects of their own free will to submit I support their right to do so. In fact if someone attempted to take away my freedom to submit if the desire came upon me I would be very vocal about my thoughts on the matter (submissively and gracefully I'm sure. Heh). I want that right even if I don't choose to enact it. I want the right to choose how I relate to people, and I want everyone else to have that too.  And we need feminism as much as we need all kinds of social constructs to have that. Think where we would be otherwise;

Like sex? Whore! You should be stoned to death.

Forced to have sex ? Child rape victim? Whore! You should be stoned to death! 

Ever been sexual with someone of the same sex as yourself? See above. Or if you’re ‘lucky’ maybe a bit of " corrective rape " may be the answer.

Or perhaps you would really have loved your young self or your female children to be subject to some female genital mutilation 

If you are on FL you have access to technology and the internet. Would you prefer to never have that option? Would you prefer to not have been allowed access to basic education perhaps? Do you want the option to vote? Even if you choose not to vote, or to give your vote to your other to use, do you want to be denied that option by random strangers? Or how about the option to drive? Or the ability to work, earn money and decide where that goes (even if it goes to someone else you chose to be in charge of such things).

Then we have the rampant misunderstandings of feminism, assuming or claiming it’s all about female supremacy or the subjugation of men. This is glaringly incorrect. There is no place for the notion of any gender supremacy in feminism. Principles regarding equality do not allow for such things by default.

And all these points are one that I think need considering before trying to be cute and trotting out trite phrases about ‘feminazis’.  

As for the percentage of men who stride around FL loudly booming that they are against that bad, bad feminism I’d ask this. Let’s assume for the sake of demographic ease that you are a heterosexual dominant male and you have a female submissive mate. Do you want her to submit to random male authority out of fear, or just submit to yours? Do you want any dude who wants to fuck her to be able to do so without it being an issue? Would you want her stigmatised or mistreated for that?  Do you want her to not be able to earn money if necessary/ desired? Do you want any kids you may have to grow up in that world? Or for your woman to not have access to contraception/ give birth without health provision? I rather doubt that in most cases, because I refuse to believe that most men are not decent human beings.  I respect and like a great deal of men you see.

Moaning that essentially ‘girls are mean now’ is lame and the men who do that really need to up their game. Incidentally calling any random woman you don’t like a cunt doesn’t actually do that nor does attempting to patronise, or threatening violence (I have had so many rape threats on FL it is unhinged and at this stage dull). There are a great deal of really fantastic men on FL, and I don't find they elect to resort to such reductionist behaviour. They don't need to.

How we shape our relationship structures is a personal matter.  What I am in favour of is freedom of choice, for everyone, regardless of something as trite as what genitalia they may have. Obviously we are nowhere near this, but that’s the principle at work in feminism, and one I believe that as members of a sometimes stigmatised subculture we do ourselves a serious disservice by tritely castigating.  

Because if we start generically arguing against core personal freedoms, we ultimately shoot ourselves, and each other, in the foot.

Mindfulness - Part Two

Let us meditate, friends.

Mindfulness and slavery.

There are often posts on FL and other boards I've been on about spirituality and slavery.  These can be quite divisive, I think this is because people can become entrenched in some dogma or another, and then become defensive about it. I think this is a pity as I think the area is actually pretty interesting. I also think that there are areas of commonality amongst some people who experience slavery as spiritual, regardless of any ‘path’ they may be on, and there’s one in particular I thought I'd mention as I don't see it verbalised a lot.

I think that by default, the act of slavery moves many slaves to a state of mindfulness. I don’t want to go into a huge discussion of this, but maybe just have a cursory think about it here.

While a slave may worry about the future, to thrive as a slave they often have to ultimately surrender themselves to the core truth that the bigger picture direction their future takes belongs to their owner, and sometimes by default, this can force a slave to embrace living in the present moment.   

Similarly, being made aware of things as privilege can force a state of gratitude. Rather than taking things for granted, without considering or appreciating them, I think that having one’s mindset moved to a place of acknowledgement and gratitude can; in some people; alter perception of the very act of ‘having’ and thus being.

Perhaps the slave is made to perform tasks or jobs they would not have elected to of their own accord and thus decide that to thrive they have to find positives and joys in the situation. Because really, for a psychologically together person, how long can you go on whining about how hard done by you are, especially in a situation you chose?

Perhaps I’m biased regarding this as in crude ways mindfulness is very much part of who I am.  Every now and then I’ll make a bit of an effort regarding this, but a lot of it just comes naturally and I usually just refer to this as my ‘Pollyanna’-esque nature. Lest I accidentally fool any of you into erroneously thinking I’m some kind of enlightened, spiritually evolved being (snigger, don't worry, I doubt any of you are that silly) I should add that I think in my case this is one of those perks of having had a less that salubrious start in life – to a degree everything looks quiet bright and shiny after if you decide not to waste your time being a miserable ungrateful fucker.  

Here, I’ve found that when N embraces mindfulness (though he doesn’t think of it in those terms) he is ok. Content, calm, settled and at seamless ease with his world. He's pleasant to be around, and pleasant for himself to live in. It’s when he flips the other way, which he does radically and aggressively, that he is both unhappy in himself and unpleasant to be around.

I don’t know how widespread this phenomena is, but mindfulness seems to be a notable trait amongst a significant proportion of the slaves I know in successful, happy, long term relationships so it seemed worth considering.

'How long have you been into BDSM?'

When I venture to public access BDSM events, I get asked things like ‘how long have I been kinky?’ ‘How long have I been ‘into’ BDSM?’ ‘When did I start ‘doing’ kinky shit?’ I always look at the people who ask these questions with a sort of blank stare. What are we calling ‘kinky’ for these purposes? How ‘into’ BDSM does one have to be to ‘into’ it? And what kind of ‘it’ are we talking about?

The simple answer is that as long as I’ve been sentient I seem to have had the kink component. I distinctly remembering having hardcore sadistic fantasies; even by my current standards; aged no more than five, though I didn’t see them as sexual then. My erotic fantasies have always been SM and/ or D/s  related.  Interestingly, in my formative years I was rarely the giver of sadism, I was watching others engaged in agonising, dastardly deeds, or occasionally receiving it, but never intentionally being sadistic (I would imagine doing the hurting but never ‘enjoying’ it. Snort). I didn’t want to be a sadist you see. I didn’t like people who hurt people. They were bad. And I didn’t want to be ‘bad’.

What really got my engine running was the energy between people though, and somehow I managed to justify that in my processing. The physical stuff in my fantasies was just the manifestation of that, it was the remorse, the tears, the begging, the screaming, the desire, the longing, the pain ending, the brave stoicism, the nobility that held it all together for me. That was what I wanted. The passion that goes with pain, to have them under my control, that was the key. The pain was largely just the tool (or so I told myself anyway). Typing this, I’ve just realised that in the same way that other girls think that they’ll love you if you suck really good cock, I thought I could get them to love me if I hurt them and protected them so only I hurt them, and took them to places they never even dreamed of. I simply couldn’t perceive of meaningful intimacy without control and pain in the mix.

Eroticism to me was, and is, all about domination and submission and pain…. but still I didn’t want to be a sadist. A lot of people don’t I realise, but I had my own very strong reasons in addition to this so it was a huge thing to me.  

When by the time I got round to having penetrative sex, I’d been a fucking Grand Poobah of SM and D/s (in crude, non defined forms) for years before then, it was in my blood.

I’m good at inspiring loyalty, it’s the magic card I was born with, and I ran with that. And it turned out that I was right! If I protected people, and hurt them, controlled them, and took them on magic carpet rides to a mixture of good places and bad, they gazed at me with big dark addicted eyes and did what I wanted. Tra la la. It was easy for me, it came entirely naturally. Looking back I enslaved people very very young, too young.

Sex, without power exchange just bored me, but I wanted to be ‘normal’, to not be fucked up, to not be bad and dangerous. Now I know I am fucked up, abnormal, can be dangerous if necessary, but not bad. Then, being ‘bad’ was a terror.  

I like cutting. And kicking. And choking. And fucking while people scream and cry. And biting right through flesh. And drinking blood, And beating, harsh and long. And humiliation and headfucks and other deliciously twisted sadistic things. Most of all though, I like power. I like control. And what do you know I’m very good at that?  But there wasn’t a space in my head for all that stuff marked ‘good’ (or ‘not bad’) so I struggled.

But I love power exchange so much more than the giving of pain, TPE in particular. I like to see people gulp down their pride when they don’t want to, but know they feel they have to for me. I like to see them submit. I like to run them. I like to see them extend themselves, way, way beyond where they are comfortable, just. for. me. And knowing how to do that has always been like breathing to me.

So how long have I been into BDSM? Always perhaps? Since I first made someone crawl for me? Since I ordered people to do what I wanted and they did? Since I hurt someone and made them gasp? Since I took charge of someones life? Since I broke someone and saw them look at me like I was a God? Since I made people afraid, because they wanted my approval more than they wanted not to get hurt? Since I changed people's erotic responses? Since I forced someone to orgasm then laughed at them for it and made them beg?

Power is what I fly on, much, much more than giving pain, which I know surprises many people. BDSM is largely what I’m made of.  I still sometimes wish I wasn’t a sadist, but I am what I am.

I'm a kinky bitch, and I'm ok with that.